Enter a Servant
SERVANT A messenger from Caesar.
CLEOPATRA What, no more ceremony? See, my women:
Against the blown rose may they stop their nose,
That kneeled unto the buds. Admit him, sir.
[Exit Servant]
ENOBARBUS [aside] Mine honesty and I begin to square.
The loyalty well held to fools does make
Our faith mere folly; yet he that can endure
To follow with allegiance a fall’n lord
Does conquer him that did his master conquer,
And earns a place i’th’ story. (3.13.36-45)
Things keep moving on: there’s a messenger from Caesar, hot on the heels of the schoolmaster’s return. As Cleopatra notes, the servant is factual, efficient, but not exactly the flower of courtesy: what, no more ceremony? is that how you’re accustomed to treat a queen? See, my women, this is what I told you would happen: against the blown rose, past its best, its petals faded and falling, may they stop their nose, guard against catching even a whiff of decay, that kneeled unto the buds, treated it with reverence when it was yet to blossom. Now I’m on the way down and out, now I’m fallen from favour, now that I’ve lost my power and influence and status, or as good as—they’re not going to treat me with respect and reverence any more. No more bowing and scraping, for all that they did it assiduously when I was in the ascendant. It was ever thus. Admit him, sir, she says to the servant, perhaps with elaborate, sarcastic courtesy, or else in peremptory tones.
Enobarbus again, his second long aside drawing attention to his increasing marginalisation. Mine honesty and I begin to square. I’m starting to feel conflicted, uneasy, and at odds with my own sense of honour and integrity. Because, frankly, the loyalty well held to fools does make our faith mere folly. It’s all very well to put loyalty and fidelity above everything else, to stand by your friend and master through thick and thin. But if what they’re doing is sheer stupidity—well, isn’t it plain foolishness to continue to stick with them? Isn’t it making me a fool too, if I remain so unshakeably loyal to one? Yet—and he hasn’t made up his mind yet, certainly not—he that can endure to follow with allegiance a fallen lord does conquer him that did his master conquer, and earns a place in the story. Isn’t there perhaps, at the same time, a kind of glory in remaining so loyal, a particular sort of honour because it has no hope of reward? to continue to follow your master when he’s completely out of luck, to continue loyal isn’t just honourable, it’s a kind of defiance of fortune, as well as getting one over the conqueror, raising two fingers to Caesar in this instance. It’s even a way of overcoming fortune itself, doing something so counter-intuitive—that’s the sort of thing that goes down in history, that’s always remembered. To defy fate is to overcome it; there’s the possibility of a moral victory here at least, of recovering some kind of glory from defeat. What to do?